Category Archives: Being Invisible

Storytime

Posted on by
Reply

Wiser folk than I say the art of storytelling was lost when we started writing things down. I’m sure something changed forever the first time someone put chisel to stone, but we also gained in the process. I love writing. The feel of my Waterman fountain pen on fine moleskin paper, or biro on the shopping list pad, or pencil in a notebook. I love books. Crisp new books, never before touched by human hand. Secondhand books whose history I share with unknown readers who maybe left a shopping list or a boarding pass behind as a clue. Library books shared with a whole community. I love them all. I even managed to save a few books from my own childhood to share with Bear. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Mary Poppins, The Water Babies.  When I was pregnant I bought a book for him each month. My postnatal hormones wouldn’t allow me to read Dogger without crying for at least a year!

I love reading too. Bear calls any book without pictures a “mummy’s book.” I love being pulled in from the first sentence. Well-crafted description is so satisfying. Believable dialogue makes the characters leap out and into a future beyond the confines of the pages. The last sentence of a book can make it or break it. I love a happy ending, but I’d rather have a sad one than fake a happy one.

And yet. Sometimes stories just have to be told for the sake of it. If it’s unwritten, the ending can change each time. The plot can thicken or dilute according to the time available and the audience. Some stories are good only good for the moment. Others would completely lose their meaning if they were written. Sadly, we mostly only tell made-up stories for our children now. Bear even likes stories that are simply about his day. There doesn’t have to be a point to them. His favourite is about going on the Clipper. Before he started school we used to sit on the same bench in the park every Wednesday for the same story about a dinosaur called Eric. He can make up stories too. It’s great. It’s another way for him to make sense of his world. My Dad used to make up bedtime stories for Auntie and me. I can remember them now, but I bet Auntie remembers them differently and Dad differently again. Making up stories for Bear would be too much for him now, but he’s always enjoyed reading to Bear at bedtime. This evening, after Bear had got his pyjamas on and brushed his teeth, he clambered onto the sofa next so Grandad could read to him. Whatever day it is, that’s a perfect ending.

Read all about it

Posted on by
Reply

This morning I travelled to the West End by tube. Nothing unusual there I hear you say, but this was before 9.30am when lots of people go to work and I’m usually still walking the dog. Yes, I know half the day is gone by then but they don’t!

When I used to tube it to the office, passenger pastimes were very different. I was once part embarrassed, part flattered to be sketched by a fellow passenger. Sometimes people would do unusual things on the tube like sing or play charades to see if anyone would join in, but the vast majority read books or newspapers. A minority would do nothing and there might be one or two people-watchers like me. I’m fascinated by the way people behave on the tube. Everyone sits face to face like a big dinner party, but no one is really there because everyone is between places. You see the real person. Not the work-persona or the home-persona, but the person in between, who they are when they think no one’s watching. There are still taboos. No one would scratch an embarrassing itch, for example or pick their nose, but applying make-up is fairly common for those with a steady hand.

Out of 12 sitters in my bit of the carriage this morning, two were snogging (a clear case of yesterday’s clothes if ever I saw one!), four were staring inanely, one was reading a free newspaper (I’ll call it ‘litter’ from now on for brevity) and four were using mobile devices. Only one was reading an actual book and not a single person was reading a proper newspaper. I know this isn’t a scientific sample and that these people possibly read lots  when they are not on the tube, but surely it’s an indication.

The first thing that goes in a totalitarian society is the free press. Soon after that books are banned. Are we heading towards a state that doesn’t have to ban newspapers and books because no one will want to read them anyway? My advice to the people on the tube this morning? Go to the library and the newsagents. Get it before it disappears.

Lost Arts

Posted on by
Reply

It’s impossible to switch on a radio or pick up a newspaper without learning of another skill being lost to the age of technology. The art of conversation is making way to social networking. Some would relegate to history the sensuous, tactile experience of reading a book – yes, an actual book. Not to mention the disappearing art of letter writing. So which of these am I rueing today?

Actually none. It’s the disappearing art of opening a milk bottle. It happened in my house everyday when I was growing up, and every house for that matter. Children were able to do it before writing their name or tying their shoe laces. Not anymore. When Ashford moved in with us, he was old enough to vote, get married, do what he would with anyone who’d consent. But open a milk bottle? Apparently not. I came across a few mangled milk bottle tops in the fridge before initiating him in the art. This afternoon, I was making a cup of tea for a friend and she was helpfully PEELING the lid off the milk!

I’m only going to say this once. Holding the lid, shake the bottle. Then press the lid with your thumb. Not the nail. The pad. To summarise, hold lid and shake, press with thumb. There I’ve said it twice. That’s it. No more. Ever.

A step outside time

Posted on by
Reply

What an exciting day! Bear’s friend, Precious arrived at our house at 8.30 this morning and is now sound asleep in Bear’s room snuggling her cow-girl doll. Her parents are at the hospital for the birth of their brand new baby. We have done ‘normal’ things all day: had breakfast, done lots of crafting, been to the school summer fayre, played camping in the garden, had dinner, played in the bath, read bedtime stories….. How can such ordinary activities go on when something so miraculous and amazing is happening? Doesn’t time stand still for a new baby?

On these occasions, I am inevitably taken back to Bear’s birth. Each time, the memory is softened so that the traumatic bits have been peeled away a layer at a time. Maybe because I’ve told Bear about it so many times, I’m starting to believe the sanitised version myself. I guess life must have been going on outside, but I had no concept of it. I was doing something far more important. When life-changing events take place, time marches on as relentlessly as ever. You just step outside of it for a while. Anyway little treasure, I’m looking forward to meeting you for the first time and to watching you grow into yourself. Thanks for letting us be part of it!

Puppy Love

Posted on by
Reply

There’s nothing like the aroma of fresh puppy. Life, longing and wholeness all in one sniff. While I can’t say I’d like it as a perfume, neither can I get enough of it! This morning Dogford and I visited a friend’s nine-week-old chihuahua. The puppy wasn’t too impressed when my pooch wagged into his life and started stealing his toys. I guess it didn’t help that he was smaller Dogford’s head.

We let them settle, keeping the youngster on the floor. He might be small, but he’s a whole dog. Although I was desperate for a sniff and a cuddle, I sipped my coffee and bided my time. Before long the puppy was sniffing Dogford’s foot (about all he could reach!) and turning around to allow himself to be sniffed too.

When Dogford was that young, it was exhausting but so much fun. I can only compare it to bringing a toddler home instead of a baby. Mr. Invisible and I used to play ‘puppy tennis’, where you each sit on the floor in a different room and take turns to call the puppy by name. I cried the first time he obeyed the ‘down’ command without help, he wanted to please us so much. His favourite game is still ‘find the cow.’ The toy has changed over the years, but he still loves to seek it out. He even played patiently when Bear was a toddler and hid it in the same place every time!

Dogford hasn’t read the book that says his puppy days are over. He still turns on the bounciness when he meets a young dog and he still loves a cuddle. He’s calmer now though. He steals food less often and he doesn’t steal underpants or socks anymore. I still love the smell of him. He’s every bit the puppy that came home in my arms eight and a half years ago.

If my friend gets even half as much joy from her dog, she’s going to be very happy!

Precious Time

Posted on by
Reply

A Radio 5 show made me fume this morning. After Cherie Blair’s comments last week on stay-at-home mums, they’d dutifully tracked down the public in the form of a  21-year-old woman who didn’t see that staying at home doing nothing all day could make someone a good role model. Well thanks for that, sis! Actually I don’t object to the comment. Why would she know any better? But I was disappointed that the presenter didn’t pull her up on it. The media will drag this subject forwards and backwards through the bushes until the cow’s come home, and there still won’t be a right answer because everyone’s different and everyone’s circumstances are different.

Cherie’s underlying point is worth another look though. Basically you can’t rely on your man in case he leaves, gets sick or dies. (I’m grossly para-phrasing here.) I like the idea of women being able to be independent, but I’m not sure that having a suitcase full of clean underwear and fifty pound notes is the answer. Family isn’t what it was in the 1950s. Being a stay-at-home mum isn’t what is was either. It’s about sharing responsibility and recognising that the playing field changes so what you do now doesn’t have to be right forever, it just has to be right for now. Anyway Cherie, we’re pretty privileged to be having this conversation. For most women in the world, there isn’t a choice.

I’ve been re-evaluating my situation now that my son is at school. He’s only out of the house for a few hours though, so not much has changed. It’s important to me that I’m there to collect my son from school and I’m there in the school holidays. Ok, something might happen to force me to change my tack, but I’m not going to deprive myself and my son of this precious time that we can never get back, just in case of something that might never happen.

Just like Old Times?

Posted on by
Reply

Bear has gone to Grandma and Grandad’s (Mr. Invisible’s parents), so we have some time to ourselves. Just like old times! We could do exactly what we like! We could go to a gallery and actually look at the artwork. We could take a stroll along the South Bank, stop at every watering hole on the way and then go for dinner or the cinema. Or we could just have a clear out. A lovely, soul-cleansing, cathartic, thorough clear out.

A couple of months ago, our nephew Ashford moved from his room on the first floor to the attic because Grandad (my Dad) was struggling with the extra flight of stairs. We wanted Ashford to have a lovely student den up there so we moved a load of stuff from the attic into our bedroom. Somehow, we haven’t done anything about it. Disgraceful!

Mr. Invisible decided to make a start in the cellar, while I tackled ‘the pile.’ This is a way of working together to promote the utmost harmony. A few boot sale boxes, recycling crates and bin bags later, I’ve made a huge sliding tackle of a start and we’ve had just the one disagreement. (Mr. Invisible thinks I won’t use my bike again as I haven’t used it in the last 10 years. I think it is my bike, so I will decide whether I will use it again or not when I have time to make such a weighty decision!)

Before Bear was born, we had stuff but not this amount and the stuff we had, we had time to keep tidy. So I see this as a bit of a new beginning, an opportunity to get back the tiniest bit of control.

So just like old times? Never again. Our lives have changed so completely, that it’s impossible to go back even for a weekend. We will enjoy a quiet dinner and glass of something this evening and a bit of a lie-in in the morning, thankful for the time together and that Bear is making memories with Grandma and Grandad.

Olympics

Posted on by
Reply

I’m finally excited about the Olympics again. I was excited in July 2005, when Dogford and I heard the announcement on the radio in our old kitchen (oh how my life has changed!) I was excited when the diggers moved in and the electricity pylons moved out. I was excited as Bear and I saw bits of Olympic Park take shape through the windows of the Docklands Light Railway. All those diggers, cement mixers and other complicated bits of machinery couldn’t have come at a better time for my young Bear.

My enthusiasm has been gradually chipped away by lots of niggly things. Firstly the sponsors. How are junk food, sweet chocolate and sugary soft-drinks supposed to ‘inspire young people through sport?’ Then there was the school-fayre fiasco, when schools and community groups were prevented from holding Olympic-themed summer fayres and fun days. I can understand that the sponsors don’t want to pay all that money for their competitors to cash in, but surely these events would foster enthusiasm for the Olympics across the nation? I’m not even going to mention the first round of ticket sales. Next up, the good people who were named as flame-bearers were asked to pay if they wanted to keep their torches. I’m actually excited about watching my friend carry the torch on the 22 July. Although I still don’t understand why it takes under 10 minutes to the Olympic Park by tube, but it’s going to take the flame 6 days to get there! I know that running is slower than the Central Line (most days), but come on!

There’s definitely a buzz now. The flags and bunting have started to go up and the final preparations are in progress. The car park at Westfield shopping centre is already closed for the duration (excellent news for our local High Street), we’ve finally been notified about road closures and lots of people have signed up to work for free just for the pleasure of making it happen. But why am I finally jumping up and down? Because our tickets arrived this morning, so Mr. Invisible, Bear and I are going to be part of it.

A Bit of History

Posted on by
Reply

Auntie (my sister) and I were sorting through stuff at our Dad’s house today (long story) and came across the pink Playtex girdle tube that my mum used for storing her knitting needles. I could barely contain my excitement and failed miserably at pretending to put it in the recycling pile. Auntie thinks I’m a bit mad, but she did anyway so nothing lost there.

There’s something that tickles me about the whole thing. It was even retro for my mum. And although she got it from my nan, I’m not even sure it belonged to her. In those days, it didn’t matter that packaging was not environmentally-friendly because no one threw anything away. I can imagine the conversation now: ‘Do you need a long tube for anything love?’, ‘No thanks, it’s not quite wide enough for my spanners. Does little Elsie need one for her crochet hooks?’, ‘No, but Betty down the road is always losing her number 7’s …’

It also brings to mind the sort of shop from which it would originally have been bought. Every High Street would have had one, with a charming window display, lovely wooden drawers containing all the merchandise and an elegant lady or two to serve. They’d have sold a bit of clothing, stockings and suspenders (not like the ones you can get now – we’re talking underwear here – ‘ladies’ who wore ‘lingerie’ shopped elsewhere!), knickers, nylon nighties and nothing bigger than a size 12 (hence the girdles!) My mum took me to just such a shop for my first bra. I was a respectable age too. Oh how times have changed.

I must hide my treasure from Mr. Invisible, as it’s just the sort of thing he would whip into the recycling bin before you could say ‘bit of history!’